Four Years of My Life

The red silk dress that she wore fit her perfectly . Her hair reflected the moonlight in just the right way. Her features were soft, but striking. All eyes were on her as she stepped through the door. The music didn't stop, but the dancing did.

She walked to the bar and ordered a drink: white wine. The bartender rushed to serve her the perfect glass. She raised the glass to her ruby lips and drank, leaving no lipstick on the glass, no smudge, no smear.

At least one of the clean-cut yuppies approached her after that first glass, but she acknowledged none of them. She was hunting.

She stood, and began to walk across the room, ignoring the heavy beat from the sound system. Her steps were even, measured.

Some would describe the way she moved as extremely sexual, but it was beyond the cheapness of that word. Even "sensual" would not have been an entirely suitable word.

None of the men in the room saw any chance with her at all. All but one ignored her.

He was not clean-cut. He was not a yuppie. He was average, almost scruffy. His clothing displayed a personal style: that of comfort. He was not a "bad boy." He was average, at times little more than a nice guy in a cheap suit. She did not look at him.

He looked at her. He saw an emptiness in her eyes, and in her heart. He saw a space he wanted to fill, a soul he wanted to heal.

Still, she did not look at him.

He tried to approach her, to talk to her. Once, twice, he was not sure how many times. She did not look at him.

Had he imagined the emptiness? The wounded soul? He was not sure anymore. His attention drifted away from her, toward self-pity. He became lost in his own pain.

After surveying the room, she began to leave, stepping out of the safety of the party, and into the darkness. She was gone a long time.

When he looked up from his sorrow, she had vanished. He asked the other guests about her. The darkness, they told him.

He raced out the door, determined to find her before she went much further.

Outside, all was quiet, save for the sound of the ocean.

He saw her, making her way along the beach, and out into the water.

He called after her, not knowing if he could be heard over the roar of the serf. He waded in after her, hoping to reach her before she drowned. If he could not save her soul, he would at least save her life.

He grabbed her hand, and tried desperately to pull her out. He may have been too late.